So this is how it went down: Earlier today, a minor story broke about Trump and his love of McDonald’s food. This is common knowledge — it somehow played a part into duping Americans into thinking that a corrupt, misogynistic, racist, billionaire conman was “just like us.” But this article finally revealed one of life’s great mysteries — namely, what Trump orders when he eats McDonald’s, It’s… unpleasant. In the Pajiba staff Slack channel, someone jokingly suggested that one of us try it. And I, like an asshole, without even really thinking about it, blurted out “I’ll do it!”

And there it was. Out there, for all of them to see. I’d said it, and I may be a lot of unpleasant things in this life, but I am no liar. OK, I’m usually not a liar. Whatever, shut up. I had vowed to eat my fifty eggs and by God, I was going to do it. And so, at 1:10 this afternoon, on a beautiful, blustery, sunny New England day, I strode purposefully into a McDonald’s and ordered the Trumpian nightmare: Two Big Macs, Two Filet-o-Fish, and a chocolate shake. It didn’t seem like much. Hell, in my youth I’m sure I ate that much, if not more. As a younger man, I’d easily consume a large pizza in a single sitting. I’d eaten two Quarter Pounder meals for lunch when I was in college.

But I’m not a young man anymore. And yet, I went forward. For you people. God help me.

Some basic information, just so you know what you’re dealing with here. I’m 42 years old, 6’2” and weigh about 225 pounds. I’m in reasonably good shape — I go to the gym three or four times a week, and run about three miles every other day. I eat a lot, but I mostly eat healthily. I’m prone to bingeing on garbage now and then. But on a smaller scale. I haven’t eaten like this in more than 20 years.

So it begins.

I went with a medium shake. I don’t know if that’s important. I also spent a good bit of time contemplating the order, and ultimately decided to start out hard, with a Big Mac, and then alternate, that way I’d finish with what I imagined would be the easier Filet-o-Fish.

Stage 1: The First Big Mac Attack

It wasn’t bad. I’ve had many, over the years, and this was no better or worse than any of the others. It’s weird eating McDonald’s without fries. Also, the “FUN and games” bit on the tray cover is an irony that is not lost on me.

The first bite. Standard.

The final bite. It’s started to come apart. I mean the sandwich, not my soul. That comes later.

Stage 2: The First Catch of the Day​

This was… not great. It’s been a while since I’ve had a Filet-o-Fish and almost immediately after the first bite, I remember why. It’s like someone took frozen fish sticks and… melted them, somehow, reforming them through dark magic into this strange, not-fish-but-also-fish slab. The tartar sauce is somewhere between tangy and bitter.

At least it didn’t collapse in on itself, like a dying star made of hell, like the Big Mac did.

OK. I’m halfway there. And I’m not gonna lie… I don’t want to keep going. But ours is not to question why.

Part 3: Mac and Me

So, Big Mac number two.

This didn’t go well. Each bite felt like I was eating someone else’s shame-vomit. The milkshake is going down like nails. I’m starting to question my life. The Word Jumble is speaking to me, telling me to kill and kill and kill until it all goes away.

They’re playing a Muzak version of “She’s Always A Woman To Me” in this McDonald’s and it feels like a funeral dirge.

I burped and it tasted like hatred and sin.

Part Four: Fuck This Fish

This was a bad idea. In a lifetime of poor decisions, this ranks up there. How does Trump do this? Is it the racism? Does it give him a stronger stomach? How is he still alive after eating this so many times? I’m doing it for the first time and it feels like dying. ​I’ve spent the last few years hating Trump, and it’s reached all-new levels. This would never have happened under Hillary. Or Bernie. Or literally anyone else.

Look at that. DON’T YOU LOOK AWAY. FUCKING LOOK AT IT. That’s not food. That’s death and sadness and evil. It powers the gears of tyranny. It tastes like racism.​ It’s not fish. It’s somehow milky AND chalky, and I think a slug died there. Died of terror and the realization that even if it were to escape this sandwichy hell, it would still have to face a world without pity. That slug is all of us.

I don’t know where I am. Do I live here now? Is this life?

It’s done. I am done. I started out like this:

and now, I am this:

Fuck Trump. Fuck him to death and hell.

TK Burton is the Editorial Director. You may email him here or follow him on Twitter.